Love Is A Temporary Madness
by Xo BarelyBreathing oX
Summary: Post Reverse Reichenbach. John steps off the roof of St. Bart's (or did he?) and Sherlock does not handle grieving well. Lots of angst, feels, and I'm gonna put a trigger warning here.
1. Alone Protects Me

Okay, so I've wanted to write a Sherlock fanfiction for a long time, so here we go! I am a dutiful Johnlock shipper so expect that. Reviews are absolutely welcome and if you spot any mistakes please let me know! This is un-beta'd so there is bound to be some. Thank you for reading! Enjoy!

Whoever thought that an angel could bring so much pain? That something sweet, and good and pure could leave anguish and despair in it's wake? Sherlock certainly didn't. He never dreamed that the blonde man who limped into his life less than two years ago would save him, in every sense of the word. And then destroy him, with one step. One step off of a roof. That's all it took to dismantle a self-proclaimed sociopath, a widely acknowledged genius, a man hopelessly in love. That's all it took to create the utter carnage now known as Sherlock Holmes's life. Life. Such a fragile thing. Sherlock's life stepped off of the roof of St. Bart's hospital nearly three weeks ago. Three weeks. Had it been that long? Days seemed to blur together lately, broken apart only by the occasional visits from Mycroft or Lestrade, or the motherly fussing of Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock tries to make an effort, for their sake, to appear as if he's improving. To feign the signs of a man moving on from the loss of a friend. Whether they know that the minute the flat is silent again, he weeps himself into a weary oblivion, he doesn't know. Nor does he care. Because frankly, Sherlock doesn't think he could care if he tried. He cared once, and look where it got him. Hell. That's where he is. He is stuck in a colorless purgatory, one where no drug, no case, no person can break him out. No one but John. John could save him. He always did. But John is dead. John is dead.

John.

Sherlock vaguely feels the throbbing of his hand where it connected violently with the wall. The freshly made hole in the plaster aligns almost perfectly with the other 13. The pain is distant, as is so much else now. It's as if he is walking around under a thin veil. Thin enough to see through, thin enough that he can pass off to outsiders as a living, breathing man, but stifling enough so that he is numb to everything but his own inner turmoil. His body is nothing more than a conduit for a broken mind. His mind. His mind was his career, his pride, his livelihood. Other than John, it was the only constant in his life. Now what is it? It has been reduced to a sickeningly useless mass of grief and longing. A slowly deteriorating wasteland of mourning. The realization that he literally has NOTHING left begins to dawn on Sherlock, making him pause momentarily in his barely conscious rage. He had John. John was everything. And before John he had his deductions, his unfaltering intelligence, his ability to save lives simply by seeing what others didn't. He said to John once, "Alone protects me.", he remembers that night well. He almost laughs at the statement. He is alone now, and he is the most vulnerable he has ever been.

The others are worried, of course they are. Even through this haze of grief he can see that. No doubt they have good reason, he hasn't looked in the mirror in weeks. He knows there are bruises under his eyes where sleep deprivation has taken it's toll. It's rather difficult to sleep when your dreams are plagued by visions of the man you love falling to his death. Visions where he hears John's voice one last time, but in his vision, he's quicker. He snaps out of his shocked reverie in enough time to run to the falling Doctor, to catch him. To save him. And then he wakes, and the body he's been clutching in his dream, dead or alive depending on the night, is nothing but a wad of rumpled blankets. Damp with the sweat and tears of a man who swore he had no heart. Now that statement is truer than ever, he muses, because he truly has no heart. Not anymore. They have noticed the way his cheekbones stick out, just far enough to be unhealthy, the way a certain Doctor's jumpers hang off his gaunt frame, barely masking the skeletal figure beneath.

John.

That's the only thing that brings him comfort. The only thing that ever did. He passes the days wearing John's clothes, lying in John's bed, trying desperately to savor the scent so uniquely John before it dissipates like the rest of him. Before it leaves him like John did. The question arises as Sherlock lay swaddled in John's bathrobe on the bed, the question he has asked himself countless times. Why did John leave me? Sherlock always knew that his affections would be unrequited, he had come to terms with that long ago, but surely their friendship held some importance to the man? Sherlock thought of all the times he had taken advantage of John, had told him to shut up, or insulted the intelligence that he never truly doubted. More sobs wracked his body as he thought of all the time he wasted, that could have been spent with the only important person in his life. The person who taught him how to feel, and what's more, how to feel love. Sherlock loved John, he loved him so much it physically hurt. He had been around long enough to have heard sappy songs about love not reciprocated, about the pain of losing a person they held dear. But never, did he once think that they would be right. That they would have knowledge that he himself did not understand. Maybe if he had listened to more modern music he would have been more prepared for inevitable heartbreak. Maybe. But nothing could have prepared him for this. Nothing could have prepared him to have everything he thought he knew ripped viciously out of him, leaving him wounded and bleeding on the ground.

John.

John was the one who had been wounded, who's blood now stained the sidewalk. So why then did Sherlock feel as if he had been thrown off a 10 story building? Why did he feel as though his own heart had been bombarded with a hundred volts of electricity? Because he was the one that John left behind. Sherlock shut his eyes against thoughts of John now playing out against his mind. Memories of the Doctor, HIS Doctor, following Sherlock fearlessly into a crime scene. Of his steady hand and soldier nerves saving Sherlock's life with a single bullet. Of him sipping his tea and giggling about some crap tele show while Sherlock watched. Sherlock watched John more than he'd care to admit. John never noticed, of course, when Sherlock's eyes would remain fixed on John, or when Sherlock's ears would turn slightly pink when john stepped out of the slower holding only a small towel over his muscular frame. Sherlock had tried to suppress his longing for the Doctor, lust if you must label it, as he had pulled off the "asexual" façade swimmingly until John came along.

John

John was his exception. To everything. Everything Sherlock had held to be truth about himself, John was the exception. Never had Sherlock experienced a sleepless night, thinking about the man in the other room. Until John. Never had Sherlock held back words of spite or hurtful deductions for fear of offending someone. Until John. Never had Sherlock felt so out of touch with someone, yet so unbelievably close at the same time. Until John. John never knew how Sherlock felt. Or did he? Maybe by making his feelings too obvious, he pushed John away. Nonsense. Sherlock shook his head lightly. John saw what Sherlock wanted him to see. An emotionless sociopath with no regard for emotional or physical needs. How pedestrian John would have thought Sherlock to be if he knew the things he tossed and turned about at night.

John.

It was always John. And now he was gone. He would never see the blonde hair streaking after an unsuspecting criminal, he would never hear the sounds of brewing tea in the morning, he would never have such an attentive audience to his violin playing. He would never see John's face again. His gorgeous face. And he would never get to tell him how he felt. That was Sherlock's biggest regret. Regret. Another exception. Sherlock had planned on telling John how he felt the night that he died. They were going out to dinner at Angelo's that night and Sherlock was going to come clean. Sherlock disentangles his limbs and pulls himself off the bed reluctantly. Walking over to the small desk where John kept his laptop, Sherlock lifts the lid and opens the window to the familiar blog.

John.

Sherlock moves his hands to rest hesitantly over the keys, and with a deep breath (albeit a bit shaky), he begins to type.

Dear John,


	2. If You Could See Me Now

I appreciate all the support for this fic, and I will try to update more frequently. This chapter is a bit short, the next one will be longer! I would love some reviews, good or bad!

Sherlock sighs to himself momentarily, feeling rather silly and maudlin, and wondered halfheartedly if he would regret this in the morning. After concluding that he most likely will, he begins typing anyway.

Dear John,

Although I am completely aware of the fact that you are dead, and addressing this letter to you is absolute nonsense, I will do it anyway. It's what my therapist recommended. Can you believe that? I'm seeing a therapist. I bet you would laugh at the irony of the situation. And then I would laugh too, because yours always had a way of making me happy. Look what you've done, John. You've made me a sentimental idiot who talks to a dead man. And no, the skull doesn't count. That's different. The skull never talks back. You did. And I can't stop hearing your voice amongst the silence of the flat, and seeing your face when I close my eyes. Do you know how miraculous it is that you stayed as long as you did? How bloody astounded I was when I woke up every morning with you still here, in the flat with me? Every day you surprised me, John, just by being you. You saw me for what I am, yet you chose to waste your precious time here with me, when you could have been living your life, settling down like you always wanted. And now you will never have that opportunity. And I can't help from feeling as if it is my fault. Surely I didn't drive you to jump off that building, did I? I know what I am, what people tell me I am. A freak, an antisocial arse, a self-superior machine incapable of maintaining any kind of relationship. But if it was too much for you to take, you would have left. Left the flat, left the city, but you would not have left this life. No. So then I blame myself for being all those things, and therefore failing to recognize that you needed help. Could I have helped you? I don't know. I don't know much of anything anymore. This uncertainty and constant confusion is really quite infuriating. I'm used to knowing all the answers, to being 3 steps ahead of everyone else, to being told I'm brilliant by the one person who's opinion I actually cared about. Now I feel lost. And alone. And utterly purposeless. You had no idea what your death would do to me, did you John? If you had, you wouldn't have jumped. You were the most selfless, brilliantly compassionate person I have ever met. And yet you just crushed any aspiration to happiness that I might have had. I Hate it. You would be so ashamed of me, if you could see me now. I wish that I could say that I hate you for what you've done to me. But I could never say that, because your death, more than anything, has made me realize just how much I love you. I was going to tell you, you know. I know that you would never have felt the same way, but I thought you deserved to know. And now you never will. I was such a coward. All those times when I had the urge to run my fingers through your hair, or hold you close to me, or kiss you after a case, I should have done it. I should have told you ever god damn day what a magnificent human being you were, and how much I would have given to be by your side, for however long you would have me. I could have spent a lifetime loving you, and been the happiest man alive. All of those times people mistook us for a couple, I was inwardly glowing with pride at the prospect of anyone seeing us together. Of them thinking that I, Sherlock Holmes, belonged to John Hamish Watson. I never thought that I would want to belong to someone. But I did. Since the moment you walked into the lab at St. Barts, I knew you were different. I could see it in the way your eyes glinted when I deduced, by the way your face lit up when I led you into danger, and the way you put up with all of my idiosyncrasies without a second thought. I never appreciated you for the miracle you were. You were my oxygen and my heartbeat. And now you are gone, and I will have to live the rest of my life, however short that may be, knowing that I let you go. I know, without a doubt, that you are the only person I will ever love. And that's okay, because I would like to die with the unfaltering knowledge that the love of my life will be waiting for me.

Thank you, John. For everything.

-SH

Sherlock closed his eyes and drew in a shaky breath, attempting to control the sobs now wracking his body. This was a horrible idea. This is what he gets for listening to that idiot of a therapist. It took the writing of this letter to really come to terms with his next course of action though, so maybe there was some point to this after all. After steadying his breathing and forcing the tremors to stop coursing through his hands, he presses the "post" button, and watches the screen change to show the new addition to the blog. He laughed humorlessly at the ridiculousness of writing a letter on a blog that no longer has any viewers, and which is addressed to a man no longer in any position to read it. Shutting the lid of the laptop with a "thud" of finality, Sherlock grips the edge of the table and drags himself into the standing position. He regains his balance after a moment of hazy swaying, noting that malnutrition had rendered him unfit for the expulsion of energy beyond a few steps across the flat now and then. Using every last ounce of willpower he has left, Sherlock stumbles into the bathroom and crashes gracelessly onto the white tile flooring.

"That's a shame. White tiles might stain." Sherlock says groggily, to no one in particular.

Sprawled unceremoniously on the floor, he begins groping the underside of the cabinet, searching for the small stash of razor blades he knows are still there. "For science", he remembers rationalizing to himself as he placed them there a few months ago. When he located the blade taped to the cheap wood, he pulls it down and glares at it, as if it had personally offended him. In reality, this tiny piece of metal is his release. The way to end his suffering for good, and give him a chance to escape this void of grief and anger. Nobody could blame him, how could they? Sherlock gives a whole new meaning to the term "has nothing left." Sherlock has nothing. He didn't have much to begin with, and now that the two things he held dear are gone, with no hope of recovery, existence seems beyond pointless. He is just taking up space. His deductive genius, and his John. The only two things that every meant anything to him. And they are both gone. So shouldn't he follow them? It seems only fair. So as he brings the razor blade down to his pale flesh, he feels no regret. No pain. No sadness. Just a dull anticipation of what is to come. Will he see John again? Will it truly be that cliché? He can't say he would complain, but he hoped it wouldn't be quite as boring as the pearly gates he had grown up hearing about. The searing pain he had expected to feel when the blade tore through his flesh never came. Just a muted sting, and a feeling as if his very essence was being spilled onto the floor. Or is it? Oh would you look at that, it really is. The blood now pooling beneath Sherlock's lanky frame reminds him sickeningly of the way John had been morbidly haloed by his own blood on the sidewalk. This thought in mind, Sherlock surges forward from his lax state against the wall and lowers his body into position, his dark curls saturating with the thick proof of a still beating heart. Still beating? Sherlock switched the blade to his left hand, and repeats the process on his right forarm, attempting to remedy that situation as quickly as possible.

Sherlock sighs lightly as his vision begins to blur, hazy shapes forming in his peripheral vision. If he knew it would be this easy, he would have done this months ago! Just as his slowly contracting vision dims, and his foggy mind begins to shut down completely, he could have sworn he heard his name being shouted. And isn't that a beautiful voice…


End file.
